


Social Media

by rjn



Category: Sorted (Website) RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:14:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23555146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rjn/pseuds/rjn
Summary: Mike needs his in-person physical interaction to stay sane. Lucky for him, James is a real square.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 68





	Social Media

**Author's Note:**

> Just a gentle little fluffy thing to entertain myself. My formatting is whack, yo, but I ended up using it to evoke state of mind.
> 
> But guys, this is set in present times, so it mentions present circumstances. Nothing bleak, but certainly speaks to the strain of social distancing and isolation. I realize that can be stressful or triggering, so if you would rather have a distraction that is blissfully pre- present circumstances, might I direct you to any of my other Sorted fiction which is uniformly silly and soft AF.

“Are you okay, mate?”

James’s arch tone, a faintly accusing take on the question. It’s easily understood to mean: _Are you enjoying this latest nervous breakdown of yours?_

“Because you seem _stressed_.”

James Currie, big-toothed looser of sibilant esses and master of understatement. He once admonished Barry (“silly monkey”) whilst calmly extinguishing Baz...

who was

quite literally

on fire

(LOL)

James sounds fine. Of course James is fine. James is the kind of weird social isolate that can go an entire day without looking up from his laptop or his recipe. Mike frequently must physically touch the man to get his attention. This is why the one-person sofa is a myth Mike is working to dispell.

And Mike is clearly not okay, okay? The Mrs, does not enjoy a balanced workflow, you see. She works, um, like, all of the workday? Sequestered at one end of the new house while Mike remains in his soundproofed lair. So during the breaks in FUN where Mike would normally engage Barry in a round of Spinny-Chair-Make-Dizzy or practice super long distance grape to mouth delivery, instead

Mike

is on his

own

Spinning his own chair, throwing his own grapes (except he has no grapes, because there is a pandemic, alright, grapes were unavailable, also health facilities are STRESSED saving lives, and available sultanas are choking hazards). _The Mrs_ (he only calls her that because it annoys her and she is hilarious when she gets annoyed with Mike) tippy taps away on her keyboard and conducts meetings and Mike spirals a bit downwards. Isolated in the company of _himself._ It’s a mothereffin’ disaster scene.

Mike is, of course, a hero of texts and facetime, because he has five thousand and forty-six (5046) friends (frnz) at last count and they live everywhere. But his phone is

CRACK

ING

UNDER THE PRESSURE. And Mike is very much worried for everyone he can’t see in person and touch in person and annoy in person.

Annoying people really brings out the best in them, the way Mike does it.

This is the longest he has gone without a BRO-HUG and facetime smiles have a LAG and Mike likes to communicate with… his… body? Um, that’s not strictly _… right_. But it is truth, nonetheless.

Bro-hug? This is the kind of stupid thing Mike says in his head always and out loud in specific company, the kind of phrase that James would smile wanly at in the way that lets you know he LOVES IT, but how to explain now, without much discussion, on the crumbling spiteful iphone?? Instead…

“I’m great, James.”

Though he wants to shove himself through the phone into a hundred trillion molecules of energy beamed to a satellite, slingshot around the universe, and zapped into James’ brain. “And are _you_ well?”

“Better than you are, by the sounds of it.”

Ah, James. He knows, even when he can’t possibly know.

“There are no grapes,” Mike explains bitterly.

James makes an aborted sound, a comment reined in and replaced with a confused noise. James probably does a better job of keeping perspective, of understanding the scale of the thing, but the missing of the grapes are sort of a worldwide peace and good tidings thing, in Mike’s mind? The grapes are symbols of when the world was carefree, and the prospect of fruit lodged in your windpipe was not going to cause a devastating shortage of scarce medical resources.

Hey, he’s scared, okay? AND Mike’s method of reassuring himself is normally reassuring someone else who is more frazzled than he. Mike is the boy down the well, shouting jokes up to the rescue crew, pretending it’s a Tardis of a well, with thirty-four rooms so much bigger on the inside. MIKE’S BRAIN IS SO BIG ON THE INSIDE AND IT IS LEAKING OUT OF THIS CONFINEMENT. Or, more historically accurate, Mike is the boy waking up to casually tell people he feels like he got hit by a car after, well, (LOL).

“Anyhow,” grumbles Mike.

Impatient? That’s a funny take. Is that funny? It’s a bizarre direction to go. He imagines being short with James, playing that he’s anxious to end the phone call, just for the sheer absurdity of the contrast to his _desperate boredom_ and longing for James to put all of his philosophical-but-bland commentary directly into Mike’s ear holes. NO TIME TO CHAT I HAVE TO WALK AROUND THE BLOCK MY MANDATED ONE TIME TODAY.

“Did the parcel arrive?”

James sounds bright, annoyingly unaffected by Mike’s rudeness. Maybe it wasn’t as funny of a direction as Mike thought.

“Yes. No. What.”

“Um. Parcel?”

Mike is already in the foyer, where he’d received and ignored two deliveries that morning. Deliveries are precious distractions that are to be saved for an end of day reward, you see.

A-ha!

A small box sits atop the crate of household necessities. Mike hadn’t noticed it before.

“I had a bicycle messenger arranged,” James says.

“You mean your friend Terrance who rides his stupid racing bike past mine, you had him chuck something at my front door.”

James only laughs.

“It’s here. Whatever _it_ is.”

“Brilliant. Talk to you soon.”

And with that, the phone goes dead. James?! Out curt-ing Mike, like he somehow understands the bizarrely funny game in Mike’s head. Acting like they all have somewhere to be. Stand aside, please, appointments to keep.

Mike returns to his lair and rips open the little box from James and finds….

Another, slightly smaller box.

But the slightly smaller box is printed with a glossy colour photo and description of the contents. It’s a touch lamp. A long-distance friendship touch lamp. Ew. GUH-ross.

As it is a James selection, it’s far more tasteful in appearance than Mike would expect of such a gimmick. The lamp is a simple frosted cube on a bamboo platform. According to the photo and associated ad copy, it glows a “soothing lavender” when activated.

“Touching sentiment,” Mike puns to himself.

He laughs stupidly. Borderline hysteria. He is appreciative of the soundproofing as he cracks up just slightly as if he is his wonky iphone screen. He refers to the instructions and has the lamp set up within minutes of the phone call. He touches it.

James’ text is immediate:

**Thinking of me already?**

And a heart eyes emoji.

Mike responds:

**No genie came out.**

**Binned it.**

After a moment’s reflection, he adds:

**Don’t electrocute yourself thinking**

**of me in the bath.**

James’ reply is irresponsibly charming, the way it winds its way around Mike’s heart and squeezes:

**We both know I’m shit at phone**

**conversation.**

**And In-person conversation,**

**some days.**

And then nothing.

Of course, nothing. James has gone back to reading some pretentious book, or doing some adult paint-by-number thing (and Mike checked, adult doesn’t mean XXX Mature in this case - BORING), or making porridge or whatever silly thing that James is devoting his undivided James-intense attention to and Mike can’t even disturb him effectively over Facetime! It’s horrendous.

Mike looks at his laptop and considers, very briefly, reading and responding to his e-mails like a responsible person. He really is losing his mind.

He is still holding the little lamp, looking for a place on the bookshelf where he can place it when it suddenly lights up.

Why, that _IS_ a soothing lavender glow!

Somewhere in the city, in a boring flat that Mike has never bothered to visit, an irritable ninja chef is thinking of him. Mike holds the lamp to his chest and hugs it right back, pets the cube’s top like it’s the fluffy crown of a surly ginger alpaca.

And somehow, it’s better than all the reluctantly shared one-person sofas in the world.


End file.
